


Walking the Line

by dcfg21



Series: Where You Go I Follow [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Graphic Description, Gunplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between TGG and Scandal, we discover what happens after Jim's fated phone call. Rated M for eventual depictions of violence, non-con, torture, oral rape, blood play, knife play, well, you get the idea. Graphic, not for the faint of heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walking the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This will be graphic. Just a warning. Read on if depictions of torture, violence, blood, knife, and gun play, m/m slash, non-con and forced oral rape appeal to you. If not, turn back now.

Sebastian placed the now cleaned and oiled rifle on the coffee table, scooting back on the sofa with a sigh. Hadn't been able to use it, as plans had changed in an instant with Jim's ill-timed phone call. While he had to admit he was not pleased with the thought of Holmes' death being taken from him with the trill of the Bee Gees ringtone, he was even more upset that she had denied Jim the pleasure of watching it happen. Bitch.

He'd been gone from the flat, from their little "sex nest" as Jim liked to put it (because the notion of love was as foreign a concept to the Irishman as mercy), for several hours now, leaving Sebastian to wonder what sort of havoc his lover was wreaking in his fit of pique.

Pique. He had to laugh. Only here, in this world he shared with Jim, could a bit of tweak to the ego have dangerous implications for all parties involved. An irritated Jim was infinitely more dangerous than a rageful Jim. Especially to the innocent. The call interrupting his fun had irritated the little man beyond measure and pricked holes in his façade of keeping his hands clean. Yes, somewhere tonight in the dark alleys of London, someone was bleeding. And Jim Moriarty was smiling gleefully on the other end of the knife.

Sebastian fleetingly contemplated leaving the flat for destinations unknown, but knew Jim would ultimately find him and drag him back. Given the instability of his moods and the now twinged ego, it just wasn't worth the effort. Perhaps he would pay a personal call to the bitch and illuminate her to her folly. His lips quirked. Perhaps.

The clock on the wall ticked again and he picked up the pistol lying next to the rifle on the table and began to disassemble the weapon. He was meticulous about his guns, as he was about most things, a leftover habit from his army days. A good soldier was never without a cleaned weapon at the ready and a dry pair of socks, two items essential to survival in the ranks.

His dog tags clinked against his bare chest and instinctively his hand came up to touch them. He turned them over in the light, inspecting them with thought, as always.

O-

657422

Moran. S.

Catholic

His entire existence reduced to four lines on a scrap of metal. He both loved and cursed them; after all, they were what had brought him here to this point in his life. Even though, technically, they no longer mattered (a decidedly less than dishonorable discharge from Her Majesty's service had seen to that), he could not part with them. In the back of his mind, he wondered if the Holmes pet still wore his as well.

The Captain and the Colonel. Again with the smile. Sounded like a bit of bad telly. Part of him believed that was one of the reasons Jim had sought him out. He knew from experience there were others out there on par, performance wise, with himself, with no military training. Street criminals, just as cold, just as calculating, just as deadly. All of them willing (and most definitely eager) to do Jim's bidding for a price. It was all part of Jim's game. The Watson to his Holmes.

Holmes. Now if ever there was someone to give him pause for irritation, it was the consulting detective. Jim had more than a passing interest in the man and his companion, a fascination Sebastian was not keen on indulging. He made it his personal mission to keep Holmes as far from Jim as possible, but it seemed the tall, dramatic man was forever imposing himself into their lives. And Jim seemed to want it that way.

So he kept watching. He knew Jim watched him watch Holmes, and he also knew that gave Jim an inordinate amount of satisfaction. The hunter watching the hunter watching the hunted. A dizzying circle of predator and prey, and Sebastian never knew from moment to moment exactly which one he was. That was a thrill all on its own. Which was why he continued. Such a good pet he was. He would have laughed if it weren't so enduringly pathetic.

There were numerous complexities between him and the Irishman (sex notwithstanding, or was it?), all of them weaving together a pattern he could neither discern nor protest. Protest, he was sure, would have instigated a bullet to the back of the head. But, he was a soldier at the center of his black heart, and the need for a mission, for orders, to set his life into balance again, outweighed the need to dwell on trivial things such as legality, morality, and sexuality. It was what it was, a practically perfect arrangement between two hopelessly broken people.

Maybe they were Holmes and Watson, albeit on a darker, bloodier scale. As much as he hated to admit that particular bit, he was immensely gratified by the amount of dark and blood Jim was so insistent to provide. And so he played. And God, did they play well together.

The irritation at the thought of Holmes turned sour in his stomach. That he was out there, loose among the city, running himself ragged to play Jim's little game. He reassembled the nine and stared at it, thinking long and hard about the next offensive in this war. The ability to make split second decisions was always one of his best attributes, so he shrugged on his clothes, packed the gun in his back of tricks and set off, leaving the flat in a hurry. He didn't believe in waiting for the enemy. You bring the battle to them. Time for maneuvers, chaps.

In the back of the cab, Sebastian's fingers moved lightly over the screen of his mobile. He captioned a photo of John Watson and sent the text.

IF YOU WANT HIM TO KEEP WHOLE, YOU WILL COME ALONE. ADDRESS TO FOLLOW. DISOBEY AND I WILL SEND HIM BACK IN PIECES.

Sebastian texted the address and tucked the phone away. He sat back against the cushion, humming.


	2. Walking the Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Direct and implied violence, torture, knife play, oral rape. If this turns you off, read no further. You have been warned. As always, I do not own any of these characters. Also, reviews and feedback are lovely. Enjoy.

The sudden crunch of boot on concrete got his attention and Sherlock wheeled to face his stalker, a sly smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

"Isn't lurking about in the shadows a touch dramatic even for you, Moriarty?"

The figure moved from dark to light and the smile slipped from Sherlock's face. Not Moriarty.

"Evening, Holmes."

Sherlock barely had time to register the shark-like smile of pearl white teeth and choke out a pained wail of "John!" before the Taser hit him just below the ribs. He burned and fell.

Life began to slowly return to his limbs, painful synapse by painful synapse, until finally he was able to raise his head and focus.

"Back with the living?" The man asked casually. "Wonderful. I was beginning to get annoyed. Almost shocked you again just to watch you twitch."

"Who are you?" No answer, just lips pulled back over that row of blindingly white teeth. Sherlock struggled in the chair. "You've bound my hands and feet."

"Well, you don't miss a thing, do you?" he chuckled. "I heard you were good. What a privilege to watch the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes at work. Next I suppose you'll be waxing poetic, telling me all about how the sky is blue and grass is green." He rolled his eyes. "Really, go on, I'm most impressed. It's amazing to see how a few volts and a fraction of some amperage can reduce even the greatest minds to soup."

"Who are you?" Sherlock ground out again through clenched teeth.

"Not important."

"Moriarty?"

"Sir will not be joining us. However," he held up Sherlock's mobile and shook it, "your pet will be here soon." He tossed the phone to the concrete and smiled. "Not much time to play, I'm afraid. So, let's make it count."

The hard punch to the jaw made Sherlock see stars as his head lurched back, rocking the chair on its heels. The man grabbed him by the shirt to keep him from toppling over backward and pulled the man/chair back to rights. The blade came from nowhere, a vile, curved thing, and Sherlock hissed in pain as it made a fiery slice across his chest.

Shallow. Just painful. Not fatal. He forced his mind to keep working. Hair. Short. Efficient. Stance. Alert. Confident. Comes prepared. Military. Interrogation? Most likely torture.

"Still bitter about your discharge?" Sherlock asked breathlessly. "Excessive force? Conduct unbecoming?"

The fist to the abdomen knocked whatever wind he had left right out of him.

"The fog clearing then? Good. Much more fun than beating on a sack of meat."

Sherlock spat blood onto the ground as his brain began to deduce the situation and extrapolate where it was headed.

Oh, God. Don't come, John. Don't come. Decide you can't be arsed to chase after me. Just this once. Don't come. And yet he knew John was on his way. He closed his eyes and swallowed, letting the fear turn on itself, somehow writhing into anger.

"Hardly a fair fight with me trussed up like a turkey," Sherlock glared.

"This is not about fair, Holmes." Another crack to the face and Sherlock felt his eye swell shut and fire radiated through his cheek. "This is about pain. I'm very good with pain."

"You're insane." Pain was indeed spreading throughout every corner of his body, flaring in places he never knew existed.

"You're confusing me with Sir. He's a little….unbalanced, but I assure you, I am perfectly sane. I'm going to enjoy getting to know your threshold. Fascinating stuff."

Two more quick slices, one on each bicep. Sherlock howled.

"Now we're getting somewhere. And those aren't even deep. Wonder what sounds you would make if I just pushed," Sherlock felt the tip of the blade just under his ribcage, slipping beneath bone into soft tissue, "here?" The knife jabbed deep and he screamed as the flesh burned and gave way. The man laughed again, "That's not really a fair question. I know exactly what I'm doing. I probably have a better knowledge of human anatomy than the good doctor."

Sherlock struggled to breathe, each gasp shooting white-hot jolts of fire through his body. "If Moriarty isn't coming, then what do you want?" he hissed.

A fist bunched in his shirt, pulling him closer until they were nose to nose. Soulless eyes. Like ghosts. Blank of feeling and emotion. Like eyes he stared at in the mirror. Behind the black he saw the working of this man's mind, calculating (how much pressure, degree of knife rotation), cataloguing (pupils dilated, breathing difficult, blood flow acceptable), understanding. The void in those cavernous orbs enveloped him. Sherlock went cold. He could feel the blood seeping from his arms and torso, warming patches of skin that had suddenly turned to ice.

"I want to bleed you. I want to cut open the very core of you and watch it slip through my fingers. I want to rip it out and shove it in your fucking face. I want to take everything that you love and devour it right in front of you. I want you to know that I hold your heart in my bare hands and hear you scream as I sink my teeth in." Those eyes bore into his and Sherlock was powerless to look away, frozen in the blackness. "I want to taste your anguish on my lips and rejoice in the sound of your soul breaking like a choir of angels." Sherlock began to pant as the knife slowly began to twist, tearing and rending. "You'd best be remembering your prayers, Sherlock Holmes. The devil has come to call."

Another twist and Sherlock screamed in agony. "Oh, just get on with it, why don't you?" he hissed.

The man let out a low whisper. "I was so hoping you would say that." The knife was removed quickly followed up by a stab to the other side, then several hard punches to the open gashes. Sherlock's vision went black as garbled grunts fell from his lips.

The man pulled back and looked to the exit. He smiled. "Ah, I hear something, Holmes. Methinks the good doctor doth approach." He retrieved the Taser and went to the door. "Call to him, Sherlock. Make him heel." The man disappeared into the shadows.

"JOHN! NO!" Sherlock yelled. "NO, DON'T!"

"Sherlock?" John's voice was panicked as he ran inside. He made it halfway before the Taser flashed. John grunted as he collapsed into a twitching heap. The man on the other end stepped into the light, an amused smile on his face.

"Like Pavlov's dog at the bell," he smirked. "I expected nothing less."

He walked over and reached down, curling long fingers into John's sandy locks, dragging him by the hair across the concrete into the darkness opposite him.

"John! John!" Sherlock called.

"I'll just shoot him now, if you don't shut the fuck up."

Sherlock closed his mouth. He heard the crack of knuckles and then John's trainers landed at his feet, one after the other, followed swiftly by socks, jeans, boxers, and jumper. John and the man were concealed in the inky blackness and Sherlock was unable to discern the outline of bodies no matter how hard he focused. He simply couldn't see. Blooming pain and fear took over, leaving his imagination to conjure the worst.

John's bare legs suddenly flopped into view, normally tanned limbs looking pale in the filtered moonlight. The legs flopped again as John was rolled to his stomach and then to his back, and Sherlock could hear the nauseating crack of John's skull as it met concrete. What was he doing? Everything within Sherlock screamed in rage, but he made no sound, biting down on his lip, already split and swollen, slick with blood, to keep quiet.

There was a splash of water and a shuddering gasp from the darkness. John was revived. More rustles of fabric, as if more clothing was being removed and Sherlock felt his heart stop. An echoing rush thundered in his ears and could only stare in shock as his mind wrapped around what was about to unfold.

Oh, God, John. No, John. God, hold on.

Sherlock worked frantically at the plastic tie-wraps at his hands and feet, flailing and bucking wildly, to no avail.

John sputtered and moaned, "Sher…Sher-" The doctor's voice was slurred. "Sher….lock?" The pitiful question cut him a thousand times deeper than any of the oozing wounds on his body.

The dam broke and Sherlock cried out, "JOHN!"

Heavy thudding noises, like fists on a punching bag, echoed in the air, and John's grunts matched each blow. The hiss of a blade through flesh mocked him and suddenly, a small trickle of blood emerged from the line of darkness, the tiny river moving toward him at a crawl. He heard the tearing of fabric and the man appeared, clad only in jeans that were open at the fly, his erect cock bobbing as he moved. Bare feet slapped through John's trail of blood, but the man paid it no mind as he came toward Sherlock with a blood-stained strip of fabric fisted in bloody, raw hands.

The scent of John filled his nostrils as the gag was forced into his mouth and secured tightly around his head. John's shirt. He could taste the blood. John's blood. It was everywhere. In his mouth. On the floor. All over-

The man wiped bloody hands across his bare torso, smearing John's blood on his chest like paint on a canvas. Again those eyes found his and glared daggers into Sherlock.

"You know how to pick them, Holmes. Your boy's built like a fucking tank under all that wool. Don't tell me you haven't noticed. Tell me, will I be the first among us to breach the good doctor's defenses?" He patted Sherlock's cheek and then slapped him sharply. He spoke again, voice low like the growl of an animal. "Whatever you think is happening, let me tell you, it's so much worse. So much worse." He backhanded Sherlock once more and retreated to the dark.

Sherlock's mind blew apart with every depraved scenario he had ever come across or bothered to dream up. Hot, stinging tears burned his eyes and bit back a sob.

Oh, John. I'm so sorry.

John's limbs disappeared altogether, swallowed by shadow, followed by a muffled gag from John and a deep groan from the assailant.

"Ah, Christ, Holmes, he's got a throat as long as the damned Channel." Another choking gag and one of John's arms flailed out into the light.

Sherlock closed his eyes, frantically shaking his head back and forth, howling into the cloth gag.

A shot rang out, narrowly missing Sherlock's ear, and there was a surprised cry from the dark. "That was a warning, Doctor. Bite me, and the next one is a bullet to his brain. And then I'll make you fuck the hole."

More hurried groaning and flailing. It went on for an eternity. The beating. The cutting. The groaning. A glimpse of John's arm, elbow, ear, hand, foot. They moved in and out of the darkness almost in strobe, as if time had sped up in Sherlock's head. More kisses of steel into soft tissue, followed by the gruesome sound of wet flesh against flesh, and the crimson river at his feet became a flood.

"God, Holmes, how have you not fucked him? He's got a mouth you would die for." Another satisfied rumble of pleasure. "And I so want to give you the chance."

Sherlock's stomach rolled and bile rose to the back of his throat, the acrid taste burning in his esophagus. He choked it back down on a sob and strained his eyes, searching for any signs of John's face, wanting desperately to see his eyes, needing to communicate with him, aching to see any trace that John would be okay. There was nothing but blackness and that deafening wall of hideous sound. The sound of violation at its basest.

More blood, more pounding of fists, John's muffled voice reduced to whimpers and sobs.

Suddenly, the door banged open with a crash and Jim Moriarty strolled inside. Time stood still, all the life in the room snuffed out like a candle in an instant.

"COLONEL MORAN!" he bellowed. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

He heard the clatter of a knife hitting the ground, and Moran ambled stiffly out the shadows. Sherlock suppressed a gasp, while Moriarty sucked in a deep breath and growled, "Holy hell!"

The Colonel was covered from head to toe in streaks of bright blood, smeared across his body like finger paint. The nine millimeter pistol dangled in his right hand. He watched in silence as the man called Moran stepped closer to the Irishman, stopping directly in front of him to look him straight in the eye, neither bending nor stooping to show any sort of deference. Moran's voice was cold.

"Sir."

In a flash, Moriarty snatched the gun from Moran's hand, bringing the butt of the gun up to smash into the side of his face, pistol-whipping him to the ground. Moran landed on the concrete with a grunt, and Moriarty crouched beside him. In the quiet of the room, Moriarty's whisper traveled.

"Let's take a moment to reflect, Colonel. I am offended by your hubris. I believe I pay you well enough to disregard such things." The Irishman's tongue darted out to swipe across his lips thoughtfully. "There will be no more of this. NOW GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!" The last sentence was a roar, shaking them all.

Moran shuffled to his feet and headed for the exit, blatantly turning his back to the Irishman, who merely smiled with sinister eyes.

There was another shuffle, deep in the shadows, the struggle of a man rising to his feet. John.

"Ah, yes, Dr. Watson," Moriarty grinned as he moved to Sherlock's side, pistol still in hand. The shuffling stopped. "Terrible thing, isn't it Sherlock, when the pets get off their lead?" A hand came up to remove the binding across him mouth, then travelled upward to lodge in his hair, pulling his face back into the light. He raised the gun and aimed at the shadows where John stood. He lowered his lips to Sherlock's ear. "We'll have to be more careful in the future. With ones like ours, if they meet again, they're liable to kill one another. While I don't mind watching, it's not quite what I had in mind."

The gun lowered and Moriarty called out, "Take him home, John. Take him home and lick his wounds." The evil little smile returned and he bent down and swiped the flat of his tongue from Sherlock's jaw to temple in one slow pass. He called out again, chuckling, "Better yet Doctor, take him home and have him lick yours. Ta!" The hand released him and Moriarty was gone.


	3. Walking the Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Continued themes of graphic sex and violence, power struggles and quite a bit of blood. If you're here, it shouldn't faze you. Enjoy!

"I suppose it goes without saying that I'm a little upset, Sebastian," Jim said as he followed him into the flat.

"I suppose." The car ride back had been strangely free of tension, but he knew better. There was always a storm coming.

"You're a bloody mess." Jim let the statement hang and then giggled, dragging a fingernail through the dried blood on his chest. "You need a shower. I would have thought that seeing you covered in John Watson's blood would arouse me to no end, but now it just irritates me. Greatly."

"Fine. I'll be upstairs."

Jim grabbed his arm as he turned, voice suddenly low and feral. "It is all Watson's, isn't it?"

"Maybe," he shrugged. "You know how it is when things," he smiled slowly at Jim, "escalate."

The roar that ripped from Jim could have been heard halfway to Scotland as he shoved Sebastian back against the door frame, spitting, "DID HE HIT YOU?"

"Get off me!" Sebastian hissed, pushing him away.

Jim grabbed at him again and then they were grappling around the flat, each trying to get a firm grip on the other, flinging themselves around like furious ragdolls, with the occasional fist landing against a cheek, an abdomen, or a kidney. Sebastian leaned back to avoid another shot to the face and Jim pounced, the momentum sending them crashing to the floor. Jim locked his knees on either side of Sebastian's chest and captured his wrists, planting them on either side of his head. Sebastian wiggled under the restrain, but Jim locked his fingers and pinned him securely to the floor. He briefly considering flipping the smaller man over, but decided against it.

"This is the last time I'll ask, Sebastian," Jim growled. "Did you let him hurt you?"

Sebastian's chin set in defiance. "What if I did?"

The backhand to the face was not unexpected, but his head snapped back just the same and he felt his bottom lip split open. He spat blood from the side of his mouth and turned back to Jim's cold sneer.

"Then I would kill you both. No one hurts you, Seb." Jim swiped his thumb over the cut, saturating it with blood, then brought it to his lips and sucked hard. "No one." He thrust the wet appendage roughly into Sebastian's mouth and raised an eyebrow. " _But me ___."

Sebastian gave him one slow blink in response as he ran his tongue around Jim's thumb, gratified to see Jim's eyes flutter closed as he flicked the digit. Yes.

Jim released him and got up, stepping over Sebastian. His arm shot out and he rolled to grab Jim's ankle. Jim braced a hand on the door frame to steady himself and looked down with imperious eyes.

"I'll have that shower now," Sebastian said smoothly. "You should change. I'm not going to bicker all night with you in your suit of insanity."

"What makes you think this isn't over?" Jim asked coolly.

Sebastian let go and got to his feet, bringing himself into Jim's personal space, forcing Jim to look up to meet his gaze. The heat between them was instant and it pricked Sebastian's skin to life, flushing with excitement. "Because it's never over between us, is it?"

Something flashed in Jim's eyes and he stepped back, sniffing. "That remains to be seen." A smile crossed his face. "Shower. I'll change and make tea. It'll be so domestic."

By the time Sebastian had showered and returned downstairs, clad in his usual jeans and tags, Jim had changed as well, and was bringing tea to the sitting room. He poured for two, then took his cup and began to pace the room, lost in thought. Sebastian brought the nine millimeter pistol out of the bag by the door and set it on the coffee table, preparing to clean it once again.

"Do you always have to do that? It's so tedious." Jim asked, not bothering to look at him.

"It helps to clear my head. Besides, the gun's been fired. It needs to be cleaned."

"Fired? Whom did you shoot, Seb?" Jim was looking at him with interest over the brim of the cup as he sipped.

Sebastian frowned. "I would have thought you would be more preoccupied with the bitch than my extracurriculars."

"In due time," Jim said softly. "But you're right, the _bitch ___, as you put it, is beginning to get under my skin." The cold mask reappeared. "I don't like that." He set the cup down on a lamp table between two wing chairs. "And I don't like your extracurriculars."

Sebastian bent his head to the disassembled weapon. "I don't like yours, either. I guess we're at an impasse. You're not planning on giving up Holmes, and I'm not planning on watching forever. You had to know eventually I would consider a course of action." He looked up at Jim and glared. "Her call was too well-timed. You know she wants Holmes. I say let her have him." He went back to work on the pistol.

"I warn you against siding with her. It could be detrimental to your health."

"Living with you is already detrimental to my health," Sebastian said wryly, not looking up from the gun. "And I'm not siding with her."

"LIAR!" Jim hissed. He rolled his eyes malevolently. "God save me from a woman whose only talent lies in the ability to look good naked and deliver a sound stropping!" He stormed off and Sebastian smiled. It was like dealing with a three-year old sometimes, except most three-year olds wouldn't slit your throat for stealing their thunder.

Jim returned with a flourish, flinging himself dramatically in the doorway, deep crimson lipstick smeared erratically over his lips and mouth in a garish, clown-like fashion. A riding crop dangled delicately from Jim's strong wrist. "If you like the bitch so much, here you go, Sebby."

Sebastian's face looked up and went dark as Jim pursed his lips in parody of a kiss. He put the gun on the table and glared. "Wipe that shit off your face…sir."

The menace in Sebastian's voice melted Jim's smile and his face turned up in an evil mask. Jim's eyes locked with Sebastian's as he swiped the back of one hand across his mouth, removing the traces of lipstick.

"Whore red not to your liking, Seb?"

"You know perfectly well what I like." He leaned forward, dog tags dangling from the chain at his neck as he picked up a stray bullet from the table. He almost smiled as he heard Jim's breath catch audibly. He placed the flat end of the round between his teeth, the tip of the casing protruding from his lips. He ran his tongue around the circumference of the shell, pleased now to see Jim's breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He slid down a few inches on the sofa and stretched his arms wide over the back cushions, spreading his legs as he went, crouching in erotic invitation.

"Oh, God, Seb. I love it when you want to play." Jim said in a husky whisper.

Without a word, still holding the bullet tightly in his teeth, Sebastian's hand reached down and popped the fly on his jeans in response. He leaned back again and waited.

Jim was on him in an instant, mouth hot and wet on his. Jim groaned loudly as their tongues met in a furious tangle, navigating around the bullet, searching for dark corners in each others' mouths, breathy, needy, and insistent. Jim's tongue was fire, so hot, burning him with want. The taste of Jim mixed with the slick grease from the gun oil on the bullet was a heady combination, and it was sending sparks of desire straight to his cock. He tasted of spice, gunpowder, steel, and sex. Tasted of untapped violence and hate. He tasted like heaven.

The riding crop dropped to the floor and Jim threaded his hands through Sebastian's hair, digging into the scalp and drawing him closer. He could feel the quickening of Jim's heart beating rapidly beneath the thin layer of the white cotton tee he wore, could feel muscles clenching underneath the fabric as Jim rubbed his chest against him.

Jim sat back and smiled darkly, piercing him with a heated gaze through those soft, fluttery lashes, so beautiful, and wrapped one hand around the dog tags, pulling him up to meet another fiery kiss.

Again, they danced around the bullet, passing it back and forth with the silken slide of tongue and the clash of teeth. Jim's lips rubbed and teased, making him breathless and dizzy, sending shivers to the base of his spine. He grabbed at Jim's hips, shifting him to a straddle across his lap, forcing friction between their lower halves, both of them moaning as erections pressed together through the layers of denim.

They came up for air, gasping, and Sebastian smiled as he brought the bullet back between his teeth. Jim's hand caressed his bruised cheek.

"You make me want this so badly," he whispered. "So goddamn badly. I hate you for it. Just bloody hate you." The rasp in Jim's voice caught in his throat and his eyes darkened to twilight, glittering like a single flame in the darkness.

Sebastian turned and spat the bullet onto the floor, recapturing Jim's mouth in earnest. They kissed, long and deep, each attempting to devour the other with seeking hot passes of lips and tongue, soft sighs turning to animal growls, licks and nips turning to full-on biting and gnawing. Sebastian opened wide for his lover, relishing the feral sound that erupted from Jim, giving him full access to plunder, determined to let him suck out his soul like some kind of wild Irish incubus.

He gave in because he wanted to— no, needed, to feel lost in the storm Jim's roaming hands and mouth were creating. Needed to feel drunk with pleasure, so alive with taste and touch, needed to drown in the scent and feel of forbidden ecstasies only Jim could provide.

Jim moved lower, pressing rough, biting kisses to his chest and abdomen and his breath hitched as he went lower still, mouth working furiously as he slid to his knees on the floor, tugging on his jeans, bringing them down just enough to release his raging erection. With a sly smile, Jim batted those fucking lashes that were his undoing and swallowed him whole. He cried out as Jim took him in one long, satiny pull of mouth and tongue. Fingernails dug painfully into his hipbones, fiercely clawing and drawing blood as Jim bore down, sliding his cock completely down his throat. He bucked and Jim groaned in pleasure, fingers tightening, urging Sebastian deeper. Jim's soft snorts were like butterfly kisses, there at the tangle of dark curls at the apex of his thighs, as he breathed through his nose, mouth completely full. Up and down, Jim worked his cock over, delicious swirls of wetness and heat surrounding him. It was good, so fucking good, but he needed more. More. More. More. So he pushed.

"You're giving John Watson a run for his money, sir. He sucks cock as if he were born for it," Sebastian gasped. "Holmes is one lucky bastard." The hard bite drew blood and made him see stars and he hissed with desire so sharp it rattled his teeth. Yes. Let's play. "Christ, I could fuck his mouth from now until Armageddon."

Jim released him and crawled up his body, rage burning in his eyes. "Shut up!" he snarled, wrapping his hands around Sebastian's throat, squeezing hard.

He chuckled and managed, "Jealous, sir?"

Jim sneered and growled, increasing the pressure, a slow roll of menace and evil misting across his eyes. He needed that in Jim's eyes, needed it like he needed air for his lungs. He fought for speech through the vice of Jim's fingers.

"Did you taste him on me, sir? Like tea and tobacco. Must be what Holmes tastes like."

"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!" Jim yelled, forcing him back into the cushions.

A haze filtered over his vision, like a softly moving blanket of black, and he felt consciousness slipping, Jim's perfect face a mask of anger and desire, and he gave him another second to enjoy it before flipping him over onto his back lengthwise, reversing their positions. A quick hand darted out and snatched the nine from the table and he leveled it at Jim's twisted face.

"Bastard," Jim hissed.

"But you love it, sir."

"Fuck you, Seb," he sneered.

Sebastian smiled. "You _are jealous ___. Now, that is exciting."

"Do it," Jim challenged, his mouth turning up into a devious grin. "You know you want to. Just takes one and this is all over."

He tightened his grip on the nine.

Jim wriggled his hips suggestively and settled back deeper into the sofa, crossing his bare ankles. The point of his wet, pink tongue slipped out and swiped across his lips in offering. "Do it," he whispered huskily. "I dare you. Shoot me, Seb." Hands started to curl into the open waist of his jeans, but he batted them away.

Jim's sweet mouth turned down in a childish pout. "What's the matter, Seb? Afraid I'll hurt you?" The dark grin returned. "You like it when I hurt you."

Sebastian's hand wavered, but his jaw hardened and his eyes narrowed on the Irishman. "Know this, Jim." Jim's eyebrow quirked as Sebastian called him by name. It was always 'Sir', until the balance of power shifted in their little games, when sex became something else. When Sebastian was no longer compliant, when he was just as dangerous as Jim, when he moved for no man. When he turned the tide and showed the Irishman what it meant to obey, and what it meant to bask in the obedience. When he took the reins and made the game something infinitely more dangerous, pushing Jim to a breaking point just to see how far he would go. Because he knew Jim liked it that way. "I may fear you, but I am never afraid of you. Never," he whispered. The light faded in Jim's eyes and the snarl returned. "You don't scare me. Deep down I know what you are and what you are capable of. We walk the same paths, you and I, down hollow halls of blood and pain. There is nothing you can do to make me afraid." Jim's lips twitched in an evil grimace. "But knowing that, we keep walking this line, back and forth," he rocked his head from side to side, "back and forth, never daring to cross. Like schoolgirls skipping over fields of bone and brokenness." There was nothing but ice in his voice. "It's _you _who's afraid of _me ___. Of what I do to you. Of knowing that when you come to the end and you do decide to tiptoe over, there in the blackness of your twisted little heart, I'll be there, staring back at you from places which you cannot see. And that makes you afraid. That no matter what, _I'm ___waiting for _you ___."__

"COME ON!" Jim roared, face drawn up in a snarling rage, and leaned up to press his forehead to the barrel of the nine.

Sebastian clicked off the safety and pressed back, shoving Jim's head down to the pillows. Jim giggled, panting in anticipation.

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? SHOOT ME!"

The shot grazed Jim's ear as he fired it into the cushion. Jim laughed bodily as he touched the injury, soaking his fingers with blood. Sebastian growled and delighted in the widening of Jim's eyes as he shoved the barrel in Jim's mouth, scraping it over his lips and teeth. The Irishman's eyes rolled back in bliss as his lips curled around the steel, swallowing the end of the gun. Bloody fingers came up and worked their way between his teeth, and suddenly the metallic taste of Jim's blood and the salt of his fingers filled his mouth. He almost lost it right there and clamped down on the intrusive fingers, sucking as Jim did on the barrel of the gun, both of them pushing and stabbing roughly.

Jim's fingers fell away and reached for his dripping cock, slick with need, and he stroked Sebastian feverishly as he continued to ram the nine in and out of Jim's mouth. A heated flush suffused the Irishman's skin and sweat began to bead on his body. He took his free hand and popped the fly on Jim's jeans, seeking and finding a cock he knew was not far from bursting.

Jim's eyes found his, pupils blown, so bright with sex and heat, and he groaned and sucked as Jim's nimble fingers twisted roughly against his cock. Sebastian rocked against his hand, still fellating Jim's mouth with the gun, the desperation between them making him harder still.

Jim spit the barrel out and hissed, "Don't you ever do anything like that again! You do nothing without me, do you understand? Nothing!"

They both stilled, letting all that was between them hang in the air for one long moment, each of them knowing and understanding, letting the unsaid permissions dissipate like clearing fog, slowly tucking the contested tendrils of power back to their place in shadowed corners among them.

The hand with the gun fell away and Sebastian's head arched back, soft moans escaping him. "Yes-ahh," Another moan. "Sir."

"What am I going to do with you, Sebastian?"

The sound of his full name rolling off Jim's lips in that breathy Irish lilt shot electricity straight to his brain and his balls and cock twitched in an automatic, erotic response. He growled, pushing into Jim's hand. Fuck if the sound of Jim saying his name didn't want to make him come right here.

"Whatever you want, sir. Whatever you want. Just don't stop. Don't ever stop."

Jim leaned up, satisfaction etched in every line of his face, and swiped his tongue over Sebastian's nipple. "Such a good boy," he purred. "So good."

Sebastian could feel it crawling up from his toes, snaking up his legs, and twisting into a knot at the base of his spine as it chewed into his belly. Need, reckless and greedy. Want, sinister and blinding. And what he wanted, he saw reflected back at him from the glint in Jim's eyes. Time to walk the line.

The nine dropped to the floor and with both hands, Sebastian reached out, fisting them into Jim's cotton tee, ripping it down the middle as if it were a scrap of paper.

Jim flew at him, coming off the sofa in a rush, torn tee sliding off his arms as he grabbed hold of Sebastian and launched them both backwards. They buckled as Sebastian's legs hit the coffee table and they tumbled across it, falling to the floor. They landed with a hard thump, knocking the breath from both of them. Jim recovered first, taking the opportunity to flip Sebastian to his stomach and straddle him from behind.

He leaned down into Sebastian, biting his way from the small of his back, over his sides, up the hard ridge of his spine. He felt the intense pressure of Jim's mouth and the sting of his teeth, then the warm tickle of blood. The rough caresses were bringing his nerves to life, the sizzling trail of wet, openmouthed licks and sharp teeth making him hot and fevered.

Jim's fingers followed behind, moving quickly to knot themselves in his hair, grasping onto scalp for purchase, digging in to anchor his weight on Sebastian as he ground his erection into Sebastian's backside.

God, he was on fire. Every part him blazed, saturated with heat. Sweat bloomed on his skin and he could smell the salt in the air mixed with the tang of blood and he groaned, writhing beneath Jim.

"Sir!" he hissed, trying to turn, needing to touch more of Jim, needing the feel of his bare skin and muscles beneath his hands.

Jim sat up, those devilish fingers playing lightly on his back, the blunt tips moving over old ridges of faint scars, some accidental, some not.

"Not yet," Jim crooned. All ten fingers curled in at once, followed by a hard bite to the back. "You owe me penance."

Sebastian growled in protest and threw his weight to one side, unbalancing Jim and sending him to the floor in a huff. His hand shot out and grabbed Jim's ankle, spinning him around on his back. Sebastian took the lead now, panting heavily as he climbed over Jim, captured his wrists and pinned them back on either side of his head. The Irishman struggled furiously underneath him, cheeks red with anger as he snarled and spit in Gaelic. He brought his lips to Jim's, working against Jim's biting teeth with the pressure of his mouth, groaning at the sweet fire. He matched Jim bite for bite, tearing at Jim's lips until they were both slick with blood.

He tightened his grip on Jim's wrist, white-knuckling his hands until he could just feel bone beginning to give. It would be so easy to snap them altogether. But Jim was a master with those hands and it was still time to play.

He pressed his forearms down onto Jim's, placing as much weight on the smaller man as he could. As planned, Jim stopped biting long enough to gasp, and Sebastian slid his tongue inside Jim's mouth and thrust his cock hard against him in one fast move.

The groan came unbidden from the back of Jim's throat and he relented with a small whimper. Sebastian knew the tiny noise would be his one and only invitation to take control.

He took the cue and ran with it, sudden desire pooling in his groin. Sebastian released Jim's lips and wiped the blood from his mouth. He grinned wickedly as he sucked the blood from each digit and then forced them into Jim's mouth, leaning down to whisper, "Your turn now."

Jim moaned as he sucked, rocking his hips from side to side, rubbing against him.

Sebastian chuckled as he whispered again, "It's no concern of yours who I fuck, Jim." Jim's eyes flew open. "If I want to take Doctor Watson and give him the ride of his life while I split him in half with my cock, I will. And I will take whatever you dish out for your petulance. I. Owe. You. Nothing." He shoved his fingers down Jim's throat, causing the Irishman's eyes to bulge as he made a soft, choking sound. Sebastian chuckled at the instinctive response and gentled so Jim would relax. "But you are right," he added, tracing his tongue over the outer rim of Jim's ear, "no one hurts me but you. Because no one can do it like you."

He withdrew his fingers and kissed Jim again, surprised at the lack of violence in the embrace. He pulled back and rested his forehead against Jim's. For each long second they lay there, unmoving, staring at each other, Sebastian's heart slammed into his chest as if it would break through at any moment. Suddenly, he didn't want to play anymore. This was something beyond the sex play. And this dark something now railed within him and clamped a taloned hand around his heart as black, skittering things began to crawl on his flesh. A deeper need was rising to the surface, heavy and thick like cream, crossing their little line-in-the-sand power struggle.

This was his nature at its darkest, the part of him no one had ever seen but Jim. This was only for Jim.

Jim's eyes read his face and he should have been ashamed for the Irishman to see so easily into his soul. But he felt no shame in the surrender. And when Jim flicked those long, gorgeous lashes, flipping the switch on his psyche, turning from light to dark in an almost imperceptible second, a delicious shiver raced through Sebastian.

"Yes, Sebastian?" The words held all the promise of iniquitous pleasures to come and all he had to do was accept.

The words fell from his lips without thought. "Hurt me."

The smile that crept across Jim's face was positively evil, poisonous sex personified.

"On your knees."

Sebastian shuffled to remove his jeans before complying, but Jim put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him down. "Leave them on." Instead, he pulled the open waist wider, allowing complete freedom to his throbbing erection.

Jim chucked his jeans and fetched the crop, dropped long ago, and came to stand directly in front of him, naked and hard. Jim's cock stabbed at the air in front of his face and all he wanted was to lean forward and taste him. His mouth watered.

He closed his eyes against the memory of taste and felt the surrender rise up, the dark creature that needed to be mastered. He needed pain to slake the beast, needed it, because without it, pleasure was hollow.

He opened his eyes as Jim brushed the crop across his chest with a feather light touch. Sebastian sighed.

_Yes. Need it so bad. ___

The crop continued its tease and then Jim trailed it over his own body, over the hard muscles of thighs Sebastian wanted to bite, over the rigid length of his cock. Jim sucked in a ragged breath as the leather end snaked over his pubic bone.

_Please, now. ___

Jim smiled wickedly and swung the crop down hard on his chest, leaving a stinging red welt in its wake. Sebastian's head snapped back and he hissed as his cock jumped at the sensation.

_Oh, God, yes. ___

"You need this don't you, my darling?" Jim purred, the crop whistling through the air again. Another hard lash. Sebastian groaned, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Jim looked down at his erect penis and smiled. "Yes," he breathed, "Let me give it to you."

Jim's cock twitched and Sebastian couldn't take his eyes off it.

_So hard. So beautiful. Just want a taste. ___

Another swing of the crop. "Eyes up here!" Jim commanded. Sebastian lifted heavy lashes to his face and stared into Jim's eyes. Eyes that burned with control. "Good," he smiled.

Sebastian's cock strained forward, and he moved a fraction, body begging to be closer. The movement made Jim step back and his lovely mouth frowned in response. "Not yet," he chided. "Stand up."

Sebastian stood and Jim was now level with his neck, his breathing shallow and choppy. Jim lowered his head and trailed his tongue down Sebastian's chest, over the puckered welts of the crop, and then over to run tiny circles around his distended nipple. It hardened instantly under the teasing assault and the flat of his tongue moved in for one long lick.

The impish smile was back in his eyes and Jim murmured, "More, I think." Jim walked behind him, delivering stinging smacks of the crop on the expanse of his back and chest as he circled. The play went on for some time and he trembled under each stroke, kiss, bite, and sting. Sebastian watched him carefully and it pleased him to see that the Irishman was affected as well.

His brown eyes were so dark he could drown in them and his chest was rising and falling faster as his breathing quickened. He played the crop over his own chest again, stroking casually, teasing his nipples, helping to light the threatening fires of damnation that were burning deep within Sebastian. His body lurched, sending rippling, clenching waves of pleasure from his cock to his chest. The crop lashed again across his lower belly, so close to his cock, and this time it was Jim who gasped. Jim's breathing was coming harder and faster as Sebastian watched his left hand snake down his belly.

"Down again, my dear."

Sebastian obeyed.

Delicate, marvelous fingers wrapped around the base of Jim's cock with ease. He moaned softly and let his fingers drift and play as they moved back and forth in a wickedly practiced rhythm. Watching Jim was a revelation. He needed more. His body moved toward Jim's with an urgency he could not deny. He lashed him again, harder, but it wasn't enough. Sebastian grunted and bucked and Jim delivered, each sting worse than the last, until finally he drew blood.

_Yes. More. ___

There was no safe word here, no shelter from the assault, just more of the blistering heat and blood Jim provided. Jim's fingers moved more rapidly between his thighs and he panted in great gulps as he stroked his own flesh. The sight of him spurred Sebastian's desire, the sweet stings of pain and the lush, dark beauty of Jim's performance rocketing his erection forward as if it could reach him. He bucked again, harder, wanting more.

_Harder. Now. ___

The crop fell in a fierce cadence, the whistle a siren song to his ears. It lashed hard across his cock and he barked out a muffled scream. His body was tight as he tried to hold back, determined to watch Jim finish, claiming it as his only measure of control.

Sebastian looked into Jim's eyes, sparkling so bright with pleasure and was lost as his head fell back and Jim screamed with the force of his orgasm. As he came all over Sebastian's chest in hot, wet spurts, the hand with the crop jerked and he lashed him twice more across the cock, sending him spiraling over the edge.

The groan that erupted was wild and long and he was surprised to find Jim had dropped to knees and clutched Sebastian by the arse, pulling him into his belly, urging him forward. Sebastian's hips rocked of their own accord, sliding against the hard wall of Jim's abdomen as he fucked his way to completion.

"Sir!" The barked cry was muffled as Jim's hand pushed the back of Sebastian's head to his shoulder, cradling him as he shook with the aftershocks.

Jim nuzzled his ear, hot breath fanning over him, murmuring quiet endearments between soft kisses. He pulled back and gazed into Sebastian's eyes. There was no softness now, no tenderness. Just control, alive with passion and fury. Jim's mouth gaped slightly as he whispered, "I'm not done with you, little death."

Sebastian cried out as Jim slammed him to the floor, chest first, sliding his hands through the blood and sweat over Sebastian's back. Fuck if they weren't hard again, a first for both.

"Oh, God, Sebastian, you're so beautiful when you bleed for me." Fingers traced through open gashes, sliding up to a particular spot on his shoulder blade. Sebastian tensed. "It's fading, Seb. We can't have that." Jim stretched out a waiting hand and Sebastian reached down to fish the switchblade from his pocket.

Jim snapped it open and sighed. "I love that sound," he giggled. "Almost as much as I love this one." Sebastian hissed as Jim traced over the old scar, reopening the tissue, carving deeper to allow fresh blood to rise to the surface. The point of the blade dug sharply, always deeper every time, slowly dragging over his skin in the jagged shape of a heart. Jim removed the knife at last, leaning down to drag the flat of his tongue across the mark. Sebastian groaned at the rasp across his open flesh. He pressed his face harder against the floor, hands splayed wide as his fingers dug in, making shallow scratches in the varnish of the wood floor.

"YOU ARE MINE!" Jim roared in his ear as he slammed the point of the blade down on his right hand, into the taut web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, pinning his hand to the floor. "MINE!" he hissed again.

Jim didn't wait for a reply, which was good, because the violent explosion of pleasure/pain in his brain kept him for uttering a cogent thought other than a strangled, "Unnnngh!"

Sebastian's jeans were chucked off in a heartbeat and he felt Jim lift his hips. Suddenly, Jim's hands and mouth were on his arse, biting and licking. He could feel the skin break beneath Jim's teeth over and over again, his tongue swirling over each wound, finally moving closer to the waiting hole. More tongue and teeth as Jim opened him wide, first with one finger, then two, sliding back and forth in devilish precision.

Sebastian couldn't speak for the gasping need, the aching desire that flooded him. A joyous wail was the only sound he made as Jim slid his cock home. Sebastian's cock twitched, heavy and dripping, and the pain in his hand was long forgotten as Jim began to thrust. Jim fucked him hard and fast, snapping his hips over and over, like the pistons of a well-oiled machine, never stopping, never pausing, never relenting in their urgency. Each pass danced over the tiny bundle of nerves at his prostate, causing Sebastian to tremble with anticipation.

Harder and deeper, Jim rocked, finally reaching around to take Sebastian's cock in his hand and stroke as he moved, driving them both onward. Jim came first in a wild cry of abandon, the sound so tangible, it slid across Sebastian's skin like fingers and triggered his release.

Jim collapsed on top of him, crawling over him to remove the knife from his hand. Instantly, the remnants of Jim's shirt appeared, and he bound the fabric around Sebastian's gushing hand. Neither spoke and Jim helped him to his feet, both of them covered in blood, sweat and semen.

There was a brief pause and a connecting glance that turned into a heated stare.

Jim moved closer and lifted his head, eyes searching Sebastian's. "I can't," he said, the soft lilt misting over him. "Because I don't."

Sebastian nodded. "I know you won't ever say it, sir. Good thing I don't need to hear it."

"Don't flatter yourself, Sebastian. I don't love you." Jim's hot puff of breath on his face and the use of his full name made him hard. Again.

"I know," Sebastian said quietly. "I don't love you in exactly the same way you don't love me. Completely."

"I HATE YOU!" Jim spat, his body trembling with rage.

"I hate you, too," he replied, cupping Jim's face with his hand, running the pad of his thumb across Jim's cheekbone, relishing the fleeting look of surrender that passed though Jim's eyes at the caress. "And that's why I can never leave you. Ever."

Jim didn't reply, but there was a subtle softening around the lines of his eyes and his shoulders relaxed. He blinked and it was gone. Jim's eyes raked his face and he leaned into Sebastian's touch, taking in a deep breath. He blew it out softly and murmured, "Clean up. Don't be long. I'm tired. You know I don't sleep when you're not in the bed." He turned and Sebastian watched him head upstairs.

Sebastian felt a twinge low in his belly. Something lived here, deep within, lurking beyond the blackness, beneath the blood, beneath the pain. Driven by sex and power, there was something else, another fire that burned, invisible to the naked eye, and it seared them both, Sebastian knew. And in the long hours of the night they both cherished it and held it close. Held it closer than they held each other in the dark. Clutched at it fiercely in those unknown corners of the heart, keeping it hidden from the light of day. It would probably never surface, that strange burning bond, not even upon pain of death. But it was enough to know that it was there, living and breathing in a slow, steady cadence, just waiting. Forever. It was enough. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it (or even if you didn't), please leave a comment or review. I only want my fic to get better. Concrit helps. Hugs.


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